Prepare for Italian Intelligence!
by Fobwatch
Summary: It's 2010, a long time since WWII. Italy's last spying blunder is largely forgotten by everyone…except, unsurprisingly, Germany. Genuinely concerned about Italy's espionage abilities, Germany sends Italy to England to learn...
1. An Odd Deal

_**World War Two**_

_**Allied Forces Meeting Room**_

_**Location: Unknown**_

_**Time: Unknown**_

'Will we have pasta? Pasta would be great!'

A thick batter of silence and shock smothered the neat, wood-panelled meeting room, only to be broken by an oblivious 've'. Every else's face had frozen into the same gobsmacked expression (with the exception of Russia), as if time had turned into a pocket watch and someone had pulled the little knob out.

Then, with a little push –

'HA HA HAAA! HOW DID HE GET IN?'

'GET THE BLOODY HELL _OUT_!'

'WHAT'S _HE_ DOING HERE? THIS IS NOT SHOWING ANY _AMOUR_!'

'WHERE ARE THE GUARDS –ARU?'

'Ah…did he hear anything? I can always knock a hole out of his head...'

And outside, upon hearing the sudden (and motley) explosion of noise and flurry, Germany deflated, all his perfect hopes shattered. Not that it wasn't entirely unexpected.

_**19 May 2010**_

_**Germany's house**_

_**1837 GMT**_

He still felt a pang of slightly embarrassed queasiness whenever his thoughts strayed to that unfortunate memory. Everyone else had forgotten it, but Germany's hard-drive-like brain hadn't allowed him to hit the "DELETE" button. Italy's skills for spying (or any sort of activity which involved discretion, actually) had been clearly awful since the fateful day they met, and that was a pretty well-known, and generally, er, "accepted" fact. To Germany, though, this was an extremely serious and somewhat grim matter. Spying was inevitable, and it was essential, as a country, to do it _right_. Italy had to learn to do it _right_ – and fast.

Germany had tried all he could to at least make Italy half-competent, but it never worked. That in itself was frustrating. Germany could do anything from making a car to throwing a hand grenade perfectly…except for when it came to Italy.

Germany sighed and frowned. _He_ couldn't do anything; that's for sure. He'd tried a lot of late, but he couldn't bring himself to dash all of Italy's enthusiastic hopes of playing football whenever he [Germany] came around.

His efficient brain hit the obvious answer at once. He'd get someone else to do it!

Germany thought. He needed a country with a good spy reputation. And the answer was yet another obvious one: _England_.

Of course! What with all that Scotland Yard and MI6 business, not to mention James Bond, England _had_ to have some sort of talent in spy-training. The issue of England remembering that humiliating event would be almost nil, and there wouldn't be any post-war resentment now; even only twenty years after the war, they were on reasonable terms, and now they were somewhat all fine. England simply _had_ to accept Italy! He'd understand just _how_ important spying was.

Picking up his extremely new and high-tech phone, Germany stabbed in the number rapidly as if to get it just over and done with, and waited nervously for him to pick up.

'Evening,' came England's voice on the other end of the line.

Germany cleared his throat and fiddled with a pen. 'Er, hello, it's Germany.'

'Oh. What do you want?'

England sounded a bit apprehensive and bored, if that was possible. Germany scratched his nose with the pen. Unfortunately, it was the tip, and he could see a funny blue blot when he went cross-eyed. He set the pen down quickly. How could he put it?

'Can-you-train-Italy-to-be-a-spy?' Germany blurted in one breath.

'Er…sorry?'

Taking a deep breath, he repeated what he said, only slower.

There wasn't any reply. If he didn't know better about technology, Germany would've thought that England had hung up.

'Hello? England!' Germany barked into the phone.

'Good grief,' said England, in an odd way. 'Italy? As if I'd say yes. Oh, yeh, 'cos Italy's a completely beautiful person to teach. Look, _why_ would I want to teach _Italy_? I'm not actually sure if it's even _possible_, for one. Is he even capable of paying attention to anything that doesn't involve pasta?'

'Well, someone's got to do it, and you're the best candidate.'

'Why _me_? I can't! Only a complete git would.'

'Aren't _you_?'

'_Excuse me_?'

Germany said nothing. He couldn't risk getting England annoyed. He'd only strop off and Germany…and Italy…would be left floundering.

'All right,' Germany said. 'We'll have a compromise, OK? During the time when you're training Italy, I'll buy cars from you, I'll get my groceries from you, I'll listen to music from you, I'll watch your TV and films, I'll – '

'Cor, aren't you desperate.'

'But only on the condition that you must finish Italy's training. Will you teach him?'

There was a pause, and England sighed resignedly. 'Well, yeh, OK then, I will. I can't believe I'm saying this, but that is a pretty good compromise... for you. Deal?'

Germany sighed with relief. 'Deal.'

They hung up.

Barely a second after Germany had set it down, the phone exploded into a volley of ringing. He snatched it back up.

'Oh, Germany?'

'What?'

'I recommend _Top Gear_. TTFN.'

* * *

_Wotcher! This is the author here...this is not part of the story._

_Anyway, I'd like to thank my friend "sl8011" [.net/u/2334182/] for proofreading this. I'd also like to thank God for giving me the idea in the first place, and the film _Johnny English_._

_I don't know if you're allowed to put the disclaimer down here, but I didn't want to spoil it. But anyway, I don't own _Hetalia_ and the characters, and since I mentioned it, I don't own Scotland Yard, MI6, James Bond, and sadly, I don't own _Top Gear_._

_By the way, Germany has really cool car factories. They're beautiful, bright, neat and really clean. Take Volkswagen for example._

_Hope you've enjoyed!_

_~Cheerio, BritishInvaded ;)_


	2. A Very Freaky Deaky England

_**21 May 2010**_

_**England's house**_

_**1401 GMT**_

The house was large, and largely unfamiliar to Italy. He had just dawdled out of his car and was slouching up the garden path, whistling, when he was pounced upon unexpectedly from behind by England.

'Shocking,' said England, his thick eyebrows pinched into a disapproving glare as he wielded a heavy, yellow, plastic stopwatch dangerously at Italy. He hadn't even bothered to say hello. 'You were exactly two hours and one minute late. What use is your bloody _Ferrari 458 Italia_ if you're going to be slow?'

'B-b-but I got lost!' Italy blubbered, barely recovering from England's unexpected apparition. 'Uwaaah, I'm sorry!'

'Disgraceful!' England raved on. Italy noticed a cup of tea sloshing in his other hand and tried to give it the widest possible berth. 'As a spy, you must _always_ be _punctual_! You must also know how to read a sodding _map_! Sat navs are complete rubbish! Spies cannot ever rely entirely on mere _gadgets_, especially if they are controlled by the American army. You can't afford to make these sorts of stupid _mistakes _on a mission. The word "mistake" does not appear in _our_ dictionary!'

England's stopwatch flew out of his hand and hit Italy smack-bang on the nose. He whimpered. Scolded the second he got out of his car. His nose hurt. His curl drooped.

'Stop that _pathetic_ crying! Show some _grit_, man!'

Italy's bottom lip quivered madly. England rolled his indignant green eyes and snatched up his stopwatch, which had thankfully landed on the neatly trimmed thyme and not the neatly pebbled path.

'Oh, you useless flop. Get your stuff and get in the house.'

By the time they were over the threshold, Italy's tears had completely drenched England's hair, and the cup of tea had overflowed, the stuff spilling out suspiciously much saltier than it usually was.

_**21 May 2010**_

_**England's room**_

_**2322 GMT**_

With his headphones on and blaring, and his eyes closed in bed, England was finally able to relax after a mentally-straining nine hours with that Italian twit. He wondered how Germany, who was, by common knowledge, much scarier than him, could stand it.

There had been a few more yelling-fests since Italy had entered his house, including a particularly painfully-provoked one which happened at dinner time when Italy refused to eat the fish and chips England had especially prepared.

'Spies can't be picky about their food, you prat!' he'd shrieked at the height of feeling insulted at a cowering Italy; spit, cutlery and crockery flying everywhere. 'There will be times when you will be forced to survive on sherbet lemons! You will _not _have a pocket gourmet chef you can cart around in your pants! Not to mention I'd made this especially! The fish and potatoes were fresh, and I haven't even burnt it, for your grandma's knickers' sake!'

'Uwaaaah, I'm sorry!' Italy whimpered as he ducked from an odd flying fork. 'I just want pas– '

'SHUT UP AND EAT IT!'

He managed to scare Italy into eating it after all.

He took his mind off the matter and tried to concentrate on the song.

_You're talking to me from the back of my car / And I can't get nothing right…_

He hummed along. There was a sort of furious note in this song he liked whenever he felt rather stressed…like now.

…_I've had enough / I can't put up with any more / No, no, no, no, no, no…_

England smiled and rolled over…

…into Italy.

'GYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!' he yelled.

England shot up and tore his headphones off.

'_Bloody hell_!' he gasped. 'What in the name of Mr Blimey's sodding _fish_ do you think you are doing in my bed?'

'Ve,' said Italy, whose eyelids, if they weren't always closed, would have started to droop already.

'Shut up with the "ve"-ing! Get out of my bed! Oh – ! Where the hell are your _clothes_? Despicable! Well, I certainly don't know where to _look_.'

Italy started to snore quite loudly. England groaned and blew into his fringe.

In the end, England had to wrap Italy in a miscellaneous piece of bedding and drag him (and he wasn't exactly light) back down to the storage room, lock his [England's] door, suck on about four cough drops and could only fall asleep two hours later.

* * *

_Me again!_

_I'd like to thank God for the great reception of my first chapter and allowing this one to be able to be published. Thanks to everyone who commented; it was encouraging and and helpful. Thanks again to sl8011 for proofreading._

_How very odd of England to listen to that song; it's the sort of thing Italy would, if you look at the lyrics!_

_So - I have items to declare: _Hetalia_ and characters, the Ferrari 458 Italia, references to _Johnny English_, and "I've Had Enough" by Wings aren't mine._

_Here's a funny Winston Churchill quote: A joke is a very serious thing._

_Maybe it is!_

_Cheerio ~ BritishInvaded ;)_


	3. Phone Calls to Germany

_**22 May 2010**_

_**Germany's house**_

_**0605 GMT**_

Germany only owned two alarms, but when the third one went off, it took his sleepy mind about a whole second to realise it was the telephone. He strode over, wondering why anyone would want to call so early on a Saturday.

'Hullo, it's England,' said the caller dozily after Germany answered. 'Look, how can you _stand_ him? I have to do all I can to stop myself from punching him into a tiny, pasta-eating pulp. He's a _nightmare_. I used to think he was a laugh, with all that spontaneous retreating, but it's _not_ funny _now_.'

Germany didn't need to be a genius to realise who England was talking about. He shrugged, and then realised England wouldn't be able to see, so he said, 'I don't know.'

There was a shamelessly unsuppressed yawn and a faint sipping sound. 'The little bugger's _still_ in bed. Ugh…do you know what he did?'

'What?' This ought to be interesting.

Taking a deep breath and a deep swig of his drink (Germany assumed it was tea), England embarked on a highly-detailed description of each and every one of Italy's blunders.

After five minutes of solid talking punctuated only by tea-sipping, England wrapped up his story somewhat over-melodramatically.

'Well, what've you got to say about that?' he demanded, his former sleepiness worn off by the rant.

'You're a great storyteller,' said Germany seriously, putting down the third pretzel which he had taken the opportunity to eat.

England snorted derisively. 'Very funny. No, I meant _Italy_.'

Germany was mildly surprised; he hadn't intended it to be funny. In fact, nothing he ever said was ever intended to be funny.

'Italy?' he said. 'Well, all I can say is that the person at your house is not an imposter.'

He could almost hear England deflate. 'You mean he's _always_ like that?'

'Yes.'

'Th-that's…_ridiculous_. I never realised he was _that_ slack! I did _not_ sign up for _this_. He's going to be the worst thing happening to me since Eyjafjallajökull.'

'That wasn't very long ago at all.'

'I don't care. The point is, how can you possibly _tolerate_ him?'

Germany drew himself up to his full height, which was pretty tall, and unable to be seen by England on the telephone. Despite this slight communication dilemma, there was no mistaking his "I-have-drawn-myself-to-my-full-height" tone.

'I'm _German_.'

'Congratulations,' England said dryly.

'It is _quite_ commendable,' Germany said sternly. 'We Germans are extremely brilliant people. There is a lot of information I can relay to you right n–'

'Listen,' England cut in, 'that's all very good and well, but I am a busy person and cannot simply sit around listening to you gasbag about wursts and BMWs and whatnot. I have a slack country to teach, and speaking of which, I have to wake him up somehow.'

'Well, if you're after _that_ sort of information…'

_**22 May 2010**_

_**Germany's house**_

_**0618 GMT**_

'Germany! Germany! Germany! Germany! Germany! Germany! Germany! Germany!'

'Hello, Italy…'

'Germany! Germany! Germanyyyyyyy!

'Hello, Italy…'

'GERMANYYYYYYYYYY!'

'_WHAT_, Italy?'

Italy was sobbing profusely, and there was a distant sound of splattering tears.

'Waaaah, Germany! Uwaaah, England's so scary!'

Germany said the first thing that came into his head.

'Where's he now?'

'He's brushing his teeth. Uwaah, do you know how he woke me up?' Italy started to hiccough, reminding Germany of a very ancient car-turned-lunatic.

Germany said, 'I know already. Stop being so silly, Italy.'

Italy stopped crying. 'Whaaa –?'

Germany ploughed on with a sigh of exasperation. 'I know. He threatened to practice judo on you, right? I've done that to you too, remember? No need for this sort of foolishne–'

'Noooo,' Italy cried over Germany. 'No… I was sleeping and I suddenly woke up and he was standing there _staring_ at me! Uwaaah! So scary!'

To Germany, it seemed intensely like something _Sweden_ would do, not England.

'That's nice,' he said a bit ironically as he combed his hair back. 'Can you get him on?'

'Uwaaah, Germany, don't you want to know how else he was scary? When I just arrived –'

'Italy! Give the telephone to England! NOW!'

'Uwaaah!' squealed Italy, and Germany could faintly hear fast, pattering footsteps followed by some odd sounds of shock, and then England came on.

'Hello? Germany?'

'What happened just then?'

'Never you mind. You didn't request to talk to me about that.'

The surly crispness in England's voice told Germany that a) Italy had just done something stupid and b) England was not going to talk about it. Germany put down his comb with businesslike intent.

'No, I didn't. I requested to talk to you because I'm telling you to not scare Italy so much. He might have nightmares.'

'Hmph.'

'And why didn't you do the judo threat? He was really scared by your method.'

England laughed humourlessly. 'Who are you, Italy's psychiatrist-slash-lawyer? You'd stare at him too if you suddenly found him in your bed a quarter of an hour after you left it and he was still _supposedly_ asleep.'

'Oh. I see.'

'Yes. Well then…goodbye.'

'Goodbye. Oh – and good luck.'

* * *

_Hullo, everyone!_

_Does anyone know German? Would "Germany's house" in German be "_Deutschlandshausen_"? A-ha ha ha ha ~_

_So, the usual round of thanking...God, sl8011, people who reviewed__...and thank you to YOU too, for reading this!_

_I don't own _Hetalia_ and characters...and BMW._

_Hope you enjoyed, and review if you want._

_~Cheerio, BritishInvaded ;)_


	4. Overabundant Cars and Chatter

_**22 May 2010**_

_**England's house**_

_**0614 GMT**_

'Leave your car here. We'll drive mine.'

England led Italy down a narrow flight of stairs he hadn't noticed before. It deposited them into a dark, cool, and probably very _large_ room and Italy could hear England scrabbling around for the light switch.

'Aha,' he said, and a loud, hollow click heralded the flickering illumination of hundreds of fluorescent lights.

'Ve…!' gasped Italy, taking in what was before him.

The room wasn't very large. In fact, it was simply _gargantuan_. And it was filled utterly with _cars_. Not just _any_ cars, though; all the _really good_ and _really good-looking_ cars. British cars dominated the collection – from a snooty Rolls-Royce Phantom to an adorable Mini One/Cooper – but Italy could also see a sixties Volkswagen Beetle, Skoda Superb and a Lamborghini Murcielago dotted around, and they weren't the only non-British ones there either. There were also some rather out-of-place-looking steam cars lurking at the back.

'Like it?' said England happily, looking satisfied at Italy's reaction. Strangely, he had turned somewhat nicer to Italy since speaking to Germany. 'It's an underground garage, but it's more like a car park, don't you think? There's a level below this, too. I've got heaps of cars here; vintage, classic, sports…'

They weaved through the glossy maze of vehicles, England keeping up a steady stream of commentary on them.

'Over there is a Reliant Robin…bloody useless and looks stupid to boot, but it's iconic from _Only Fools and Horses _and _Mr Bean_, y'see. _That_ beauty is a Bugatti Veyron; it's quite an awe. Really impressive. Here's a –'

'Englaaaand,' Italy chirped. 'There aren't any cars from France…'

'Pfft, France's cars are psychopaths on wheels,' was England's obscure reply.

Italy's eyes were taking in as much of the cars as possible, but weren't open enough to have his path in his periphery.

'Do be careful, now!' England snapped when Italy walked into a Noble. 'Look there; that's the car we're driving.'

He pointed, and Italy could looked up to see one of the most impressive cars he had ever had the fortune to witness. It was a beautiful, polished black which reflected everything in fine detail, oozing style and "I-mean-business". Sculpted aerodynamically, it looked elegant, fast and _untouchable_.

'Uwaaaaaaah. So pretty…' Italy's voice was soaked with wonder.

'Fab, isn't it? England said proudly, breaking the _untouchable_ spell about the car…by touching it. 'Get in. No, not _here_, _I'm_ driving. Yes, _that _side. Look, the interior's beautiful, eh?

It was frightfully comfortable, too, and there were enthusiastic comments exchanged.

'See why we're not driving your Ferrari?' England stabbed the key into the ignition, and Italy could see his foot on the clutch. 'This is the Aston Martin DBS. Six-point-zero litre, V12 hand-built engine. Five hundred and ten bhp, nought-t0-sixty in four-point-three seconds, top speed nine hundred and one miles per hour. James Bond's stamp of approval…and _bloody_ expensive. According to a _Top Gear _book, it's the fastest car around its track as driven by the Stig, and was rated sub-zero for coolness. _Your_ car is sub-zero as well…but it's _only_ twenty-fifth fastest. _Feel_ the _difference_.'

By this time, they were already shooting down the main road, and England was in full rambling and showing-off mode. Italy wasn't listening, though. He had the window completely open, his tie and hair curl flapping merrily in the strong wind caused by the Aston's speed. England, despite being a bit of a crazy driver, was also an extremely competent one, and as they veered around corner after corner, Italy enjoyed everything, from the posh car to the incessantly chatty driver, about the ride.

* * *

_Hullo, everyone._

_Yeh...it is a chapter on cars. I couldn't help it! There were so many cars I had to get out of my system, and I think cars are awfully important in spy stories._

_Anyway, special thanks to the people who managed to get a staggering _fifteen_ e-mails into my inbox the day after I posted the third chapter. I nearly had a heart attack. Thanks also to _Top Gear_ and that _100 Fastest Cars_ book __for their reviewing of cars and, of course, God._

_I don't own Hetalia or characters and certainly not all those cars._

_By the way, today is a rather historic day. 9th February 1964 is the birthday of the British Invasion!_

_Of course, reviews are greatly appreciated, but in particular, constructive criticism is really needed. Hope you enjoyed!_

_~Cheerio, BritishInvaded ;)_


	5. The Vanity Problem

_**22 May 2010**_

_**MI6, London**_

_**0734 GMT**_

It'd taken him a while, but England had finally coaxed Italy out of his car and they were currently shuddering up in a cramped, poky lift.

'Right, we're here. Welcome to the UK SIS Headquarters!'

They squeezed out into the foyer, an impressive welcome into one of the world's most revered spy headquarters. It was so clean that everything glistened in the bright natural light and even the softest footstep would be projected five times the normal volume on the slippery marble floor. Stairs and lifts provided a route to everywhere, and everywhere was certainly where the few rapidly-moving people were heading.

'Ve! It's so nice, ve!'

England rolled his eyes. That word was really getting on his wick.

'Come 'ead,' he said impatiently in a Scouse accent, tugging on Italy's arm (as he was showing every sign of wanting to stand and stare) and dragging him towards the reception desk.

'Good morning,' the receptionist greeted them listlessly in a tone that suggested she was annoyed at them for interrupting her game of Minesweeper or whatever it was on the window she'd just clicked off on her computer. 'What brings you here on this fine day?'

'Ciao!' sang Italy, smiling excessively.

England jabbed Italy with his elbow vehemently as the receptionist glared.

'Morning,' he addressed the receptionist. 'I'm training this fella here. Mind giving him a pass and sticking him into the database for a while or something?'

'Not at all, sir. Follow me.'

She stood up mechanically and clacked off to one of the many doors that led off the foyer, the two of them jogging slightly to keep up with her long-legged stride.

_**22 May 2010**_

_**MI6, London**_

_**0751 GMT**_

They emerged from the room hot and bothered…or at least England did.

'They normally get through that process in fifteen ruddy minutes!' he hissed at Italy, who wasn't exactly looking like he was listening, but off in La-la-land…with, presumably, the receptionist. 'Seriously, man! Get a grip. This is _my_ place. Try and act with a bit of _decorum_. No more _flirting_ with receptionists…or anyone, actually. She wasn't even that good-looking, anyway. Are you having flirting withdrawal?'

There wasn't any answer, and England hadn't been expecting one. They continued on down long corridors and up mysterious stairs in relative silence.

Their convoluted route took them to a titchy door wedged in between two rooms that contained large numbers of dreadfully high-tech computers.

'Ve? What's this?' Italy queried, drifting slowly out of his daydream.

England knocked and edged the door open.

'It's the wardrobe. You _have_ to dress appropriately,' he told Italy as he pushed him in. Hundreds of clothes lined the walls, all colour coded.

'While what you're wearing may be fine at your house –' England paused, flinching at a distant memory of an unsuccessful prison break. 'While what you're wearing may be fine at your house,' he resumed as if nothing was wrong, 'you look a complete prat here. It's _noticeable_, and it's imperative that spies _cannot_ be noticed.'

England rifled through the clothes and Italy stood in the corner fiddling with the red section.

'Aha,' said England triumphantly, flourishing a sensible black suit in Italy's (small) size.

Whatever reaction England had been counting on, it was certainly not the one Italy was currently demonstrating.

'Noooo…!' Italy wailed, flailing his arms around in the tiny space, positively startling England and causing him to flatten himself on a bit of blank wall furthest from the madly windmill-ing limbs.

'Italy!' said England in shock. 'What are you _doing_? Stop being so bloody noisy! Put it on! What's wrong with it? It's a nice suit.'

'I c-can't wear th-that!' Italy hiccoughed miserably. 'It's s-so _ug-gly_!'

England's jaw nearly smashed through five floors and back down to the Aston in the basement.

'_What_?' he said, his tone edging dangerously from disapproving onto offended. 'I do agree it's not the thing _you_ normally wear –' he eyed Italy's pale mauve jacket and matching trousers, the frilly white shirt (which would have looked less out-of-place here if they were forty-four years back) and painfully loud tie tersely '– but it's not _ugly_. Go on, put it on.'

'But black looks bad on people,' Italy sobbed loudly.

Now England was _really_ offended. He'd always thought he looked cool in black. The next thing he knew, Italy's head was under his arm.

'You _will_ put it on,' he snarled, irate. 'Don't _make_ me _force_ you into it.'

Italy's crying crescendo-ed alarmingly, and the pitch shot from an E to a high C.

Suddenly, the door opened and Russet, Agent Fifty-Eight's faithful sidekick, peered in looking worried and curious, a look which intensified as he took in the odd scene before him.

'Sir?' he addressed England. 'Is everything all right?'

England panted, 'I'm…trying…to…make…this…git…here…put…on…this…suit…'

'OK, right you are, sir! I-I'll leave you to it.'

Italy's voice hit high F and suddenly vanished.

'Oh, look, sir! He's gone into supersonic. Cheerio!'

With a merry wave, Russet disappeared, the door slamming behind him.

'Thank you, Russet! I really appreciated your help!' England bellowed sarcastically after him.

* * *

_You all should be feeling really lucky! For one, I edit my work really scarily, and two...I have been shredding my fingers with all my guitar-playing._

_I don't own _Hetalia _and __characters, and the usual thanks to everyone; you know who you are._

_Looking at the Story Traffic is wonderful! All those different countries. Hello, world._

_Fabulous if you enjoyed! Comment if you want; I can't force you._

_~Cheerio, BritishInvaded ;)_


	6. Fifty Eight and Jelly Babies

_**22 May 2010**_

_**MI6, London**_

_**0803 GMT**_

'Thanks, Russet.'

With a deadly calm face, England set the revolver down before the man Italy recognised as the one who'd popped into the wardrobe earlier on.

'Not at all, sir!' said the man, Russet, in an annoyingly chirpy voice. He pocketed the gun and directed his gaze to Italy. 'You know, mister, you don't look half bad in that suit.'

Italy didn't say anything; a curling smoke of a whine spiralled out of his mouth and dissolved into thin air. On a blank computer screen, he spotted the reflection of his normally brilliantly-dressed self subdued into the funereal clothing and winced before jerking his head away sharply. Each frightening second of what it had taken England to get him into _this_ was being replayed in slow motion in his head…with embellishments, of course.

'Oh, don't mind him, Russet,' Italy heard England say from miles away. 'I suspect he's bipolar.'

Italy took his mind off a particularly frightening mental image of England in his WWII uniform and came drifting miserably back down to Earth, just in time to hear Russet's sympathetic tutting.

'Poor little bugger. Mister, you may want to – oh! Sir!'

As if his bottom had just been electrocuted, Russet jolted to his feet, spinning around and looking over Italy and England's heads. They turned to see a tall, dark-haired man in a double-breasted coat with completely no expression (as in his face, not his coat having no expression) framed in the doorway.

'Good morning, sir, Russet…mister,' said the man with a nod to England, Russet and Italy respectively. He took off the coat and tossed it lightly. It landed perfectly onto the back of Russet's just-vacated chair. Italy's mouth hung open widely.

'Hello, Fifty-Eight,' England said sourly. He stepped over to Italy and clapped him hard on the back. Italy coughed and choked. 'Meet Agent Fifty-Eight.'

'Ciao!' Italy gasped, still impressed by the coat trick. 'Why are you called that? What's your real name? I'm – oh, ouch.'

England's foot released Italy's as Agent Fifty-Eight spoke.

'I'm afraid that if you knew…I'd have to kill you.'

The agent's cultured tone was oddly threatening. Italy laughed nervously, the pitch much higher than normal.

'Ha ha…! Ve, it's OK! I don't need to know! Ha ha…!'

England suddenly had Italy's elbow in a death grip.

'Right,' he said curtly. 'We'll be seeing you around. Fifty-Eight…Russet…'

Italy could hear a slightly softer edge in England's voice when he acknowledged Russet, but before he think about why, England was already frogmarching him down the corridor.

_**22 May 2010**_

_**MI6, London**_

_**0810 GMT**_

England dumped Italy unceremoniously onto the hardest chair and scooted around his desk for his seat. The latter was staring around in the unashamed manner of a goose, and England felt a tad uncomfortable.

'What?' he asked in a slightly accusatory tone. 'What's wrong?'

'Italy replied confusedly, 'Where are we? Why are there all these photos of you?'

England almost snorted as he took the questions in. How slow can one be?

'It's my office.'

Although this room generally stayed empty, England was quite fond of it. It wasn't too small, but not _too_ large either. The walls were the creamy colour of custard, and footprints embedded in the carpet stayed for a second before being absorbed back into the thick softness. A ladder yawned up the bookcase that covered an entire wall, and a fairly large window burst out onto a particularly attractive angle of London. His desk sprawled over at least a quarter of the room and was topped with a fancy computer, scrap paper with Sealand's (really ugly) drawings on the back, and, as Italy had pointed out, framed photographs with him in them. England picked one up, running a finger along the grain of the wooden frame. There he was in the middle, wearing a stupid party hat and a scowl, and there were all his brothers around him, enjoying their surprise birthday party for him much more than their guest of honour. As he recalled, the party did not end well; Scotland brought a haggis instead of cake, some perfect idiot gave Sealand some ale which he spat out, unluckily, onto the back of England's head, and then Northern Ireland managed to call Wales a "sheep arse" for no particular reason. Hmm, they must have been drunk.

'Ve…England?'

England blinked and set down the photo quickly. Looking up, he saw that Italy had moved to the more comfortable chair. Pinching his lips together, he got ready to give the speech he had delivered a billion times before.

'Now, Italy,' he said, leaning forwards to prop his elbows up on the desk. 'As a spy, there are only three qualities you will ever need: discretion, observation and ingenuity. Now, you possess...none of these qualities. And that is why _I_ am _here_.'

Italy looked at him and said, 'Ve.'

Assuming that this was Italy's way of saying, 'All right! Let's go for it, then,' England smiled and dug into one of his desk's drawers.

'First of all…have a jelly baby.'

_**22 May 2010**_

_**MI6, London**_

_**0903 GMT**_

Italy seriously did not think he could eat jelly babies ever again. As he droned, England would offer Italy a jelly baby at random intervals. Italy had tried to refuse the last twelve, but England suddenly got balefully insistent and he would quickly take one and eat it. He was currently having a "small" sugar high, bouncing madly on his springy seat and had been completely unable to fall asleep during England's deathly boring speech.

'…and that's really all I've got to say for now,' England smiled wanly. 'Questions?'

Italy shook his head a little…or that was what he intended to do; what happened instead was something in between a head-bang and a wet dog shaking itself.

Shooting him a slightly concerned look, England said, 'I trust you don't want any more jelly babies?'

Italy gave another crazy shake of his head (oh, ouch, he was getting a headache) and started saying 've' repeatedly. England shrugged.

'OK, more for me then.'

And he popped the last one, a green one, into his mouth.

* * *

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I haven't updated for a while, but my laptop had to be fixed and I've only got it just got it back to edit and upload, et cetera. Thank God that I have it back now in time to upload!_

_So, I don't own _Hetalia_ and characters, nor do I own Fifty-Eight's coat-flinging skills and the 'I'll have to kill you' thing; they're from _Johnny English_._

_Now, I have a little...er...challenge! Right: 1. How did England get Italy to wear that suit? (I'd like the one specific thing, thanks.) 2. Why did England give Italy all those jelly babies?_

_Those who answer the questions get my Order of Genius and something kind of nice. Don't expect much, it's just a few rather sweet pictures that only I own...currently._

_Last of all, thanks to those sweet people who reviewed/favourited/story alerted._

_Hope you liked this chapter and feel free to leave a comment - and don't forget to try and answer those questions!_

_~Cheerio, BritishInvaded ;)_


	7. Going Ballistics

_**22 May 2010**_

_**MI6, London**_

_**0921 GMT**_

'Here,' declared England grandly, 'is the ballistics department.'

Italy was too surprised (and high) to go (even more) ballistics.

'No, no, no! We can't do guns _now_!' Italy wailed in distress…or he would've, if not for the uncomfortable fact that he couldn't speak properly.

'I'm sorry?' England said, looking wide-eyed at him. 'What does "noweguno" mean? Is it Italian or are you still on that high?'

Italy shook his head madly.

'Do you need a glass of water?'

Another crazy head-shake.

With an indifferent shrug, England set off casually down a dimly-lit corridor. Italy could see that one wall was made entirely of glass. As he scurried after, he became strongly aware that beyond the glass was an empty shooting range. Quickly, he caught up to England and gripped tightly onto his arm.

'Ouch, that's Grimsby you're squashing,' England snapped irritably, trying in vain to peel Italy's hand off. Italy whimpered. England gave up and muttered sullenly about welts.

Upon reaching the door at the end of the corridor, England poked his eye into an odd sort of contraption beside it. Then, with what Italy reckoned was unnecessary force, he wrenched the door open and they both fell in…literally.

'Good morning, sir.'

Italy took his face off England's armpit and looked up into the impassive face of a middle-aged man with masses of curly grey hair. The man extended a hand which Italy gratefully grabbed and was hauled giddily to his feet.

'Grazie, signor!'

'Not at all, chappie,' the man said in a thick Irish sort of accent, pulling England up as well.

England shot the man a glad smile. 'Thanks, Martin.'

'It's all right, sir. Who's your friend?'

Italy was all set to tell the man that he was _Italy_, the beautiful and sunny country of pasta and stylishness and Murano glass and –

'Sorry, Martin. His identity's confidential.'

'Ah – rather like _you_, then?'

Italy opened his mouth to say that he and England were _not_ alike _at all_, quite apart from the fact that _he_ could cook _much_ better, but England beat him to it.

'M-maybe…but we're not alike.'

The man gave them both a long, hard look before starting suddenly.

''Scuse my rudeness,' he told Italy, hand extended. 'Call me Martin; I'm the resident RCO. You know, you look good in that suit.'

Italy shook his hand, confused as to why he would look good in that disgusting thing, but couldn't suppress his growing sense of wariness.

'Um…are we going to use guns?'

'Why, of course! It's going to be great fun, don't you think?'

The next thing that happened involved an insanely loud scream which was reportedly heard in the "soundproof" laboratory a hundred or so metres away.

Of course, the workers inside the lab, being such nerds that they'd never heard an such a thing before, thought it was an air raid siren and dived as one for the fume cupboard.

_**22 May 2010**_

_**MI6, London [England's office]**_

_**0935 GMT**_

England cannoned into his office, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him before slumping against it, entirely out of breath.

Anarchy had arrived in all its different forms.

First: it had taken ages and ages and ages and sodding ages for him and Martin to calm Italy down.

Second: once Italy realised that the bullets they were going to use were made of rubber, he decided to get whiny and complaining about other, various, sundry things.

Third: in the end, Martin had to go and fetch a pair of ear mufflers because Italy's ears were 'too delicate' for earplugs.

Fourth: Italy didn't like (although that's an understatement) the design of the mufflers.

Fifth: England had to force him into it using his trusty old method…much to Martin's distress.

Sixth: Italy started to cry incessantly and refused to do anything.

Seventh: England claimed a headache and ran for it.

Eighth: Martin evil-eyed him as he left…

Nine: evil-eyeing your own country surely couldn't mean anything good!

Oh, all this was just straining his mind! Tea…

After a frantic ransacking of his office in search of teabags, milk and a kettle (which were all found lurking, oddly enough, behind a particularly thick and boring book), England was finally able to relax for the first time in three mental hours.

_**22 May 2010**_

_**MI6, London [Ballistics Department]**_

_**0933 GMT**_

Italy and Martin gazed sullenly at England's rapidly retreating back.

'…and he's done a runner,' Italy heard Martin mutter sulkily under his breath.

'Huh?'

The older man looked up with a suddenness which made Italy jump and emit a squeak.

'Well, we've still got to go on,' he said firmly, rummaging through a rack. 'Here –'

Martin tossed Italy a gun which he dropped promptly after catching it. Feeling silly, he flung himself down to pick it up, and when he flung himself back up, he was met with an extremely strange sight.

There was Martin, standing in the exact same position as when Italy had last seen him, only this time he had in addition to his outfit a helmet, clear plastic mask, bulletproof jacket, bulletproof leg protectors, thick gloves and even thicker boots.

'Eh…? How did you change so fast?'

Martin frowned from underneath his mask. 'How do you mean?'

'B-but before I picked up th-that gun, you were –'

'Erm,' interrupted Martin nervously, 'you took a whole minute to pick that gun up…'

'Wha–?'

He'd just done something so embarrassing…! Italy burst promptly into tears.

'Oh dear! Don't cry! Here –'

Italy took Martin's handkerchief, and the latter started doing a lot of flustered and awkward back-patting.

_**22 May 2010**_

_**MI6, London [Ballistics Department]**_

_**0951 GMT**_

Italy's neck hurt from nodding.

He'd nodded his way through Martin's gun briefing (which was not at all brief). The latter had decided that it would be best to start with the briefing to calm Italy down.

'Do you get it?' Martin asked.

Nod. _Owwwww!_

'Great! Let's do it now, then!' he enthused.

'Ve…?'

'Yes; we're going to start now!'

'Wha– Uwaaah!'

Martin grinned at Italy. He didn't know why. Was this man really sadistic?

'I'm glad you're so excited now, lad. Come on!'

He pulled open the door leading off to the firing range. Its dark emptiness poured out of the room and hit Italy's nose as a "fresh" wave of stale air. He shrank back, coughing. He was _trapped_! He'd thought he could escape it with Martin's endless speech, but _alas_, it would not be…

'Come _on_,' Martin said with escalating happiness, scooping Italy under an exuberant arm and lugging him inside. Italy started to whimper.

'No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…'

'Eh?' Martin queried, confused, over Italy's wavering chanting. 'You're only nervous. You'll enjoy it once you get started. _Nothing_ will give you a better high!'

He shut the door behind them and locked it.

_Drat_, thought Italy miserably, shoulders slumping in surrender.

And as if that wasn't a gesture enough, he took out his hanky and waved it weakly.

* * *

_Sorry I haven't been updating. I'm busy with homework and a new writing project._

_Hope you liked this chapter. It's extra-long! Thank God it's come out~_

_Thanks to everyone for their reviews and favourites and alerts, and to everyone who tried the questions. You can still try answer them, because no one got the first one right yet... O.o_

_I don't own _Hetalia_ or MI6._

_I'd like to encourage everyone to pray sincerely for Japan._

_~Cheerio, BritishInvaded ;)_

_P.S. Feel free to review~_


	8. Awkwardness for All

_**22 May 2010**_

_**MI6, London**_

_**1008 GMT**_

Phillipa Parkes was on the telephone, engaged in a heated row with some MP's stingy secretary when a loud knock came from the door.

'Right, I'll leave you with those figures and you can muse on them and see how much we really _do_ need more nose-plugs!' she shouted down the receiver before hanging up with a slam and hurrying for the door.

Standing there was an unfamiliar, relatively young (and not exactly tall) man. Ash blond hair spiked out in multiple directions and insanely green eyes blinked under equally insane eyebrows.

'Why do you need more nose-plugs?' he asked curiously.

Phillipa trembled slightly with some leftover fury from the call.

'I don't see why we _can't_ get more!' she raged. 'With all these diving criminals nowadays, too! Why, the next thing we want is people _re-using_ them. How _utterly_ unhygienic!'

She paused for air, realised that the young man was staring at her somewhat listlessly and decided against going on.

'Sorry 'bout that, luv,' she smiled, returning to her usual motherly self. 'How can I help you?'

'I'm training someone. Could you please set up something with...diving...and abseiling or something like that?'

'Of course I can, sweetie!' – he flinched slightly – 'Who're you training? Some _young _and _pretty_ girl?'

His eyes nearly boinged out of their sockets. 'Wh– _Pardon_? Qu– _quite_ the opposite!'

'Aw, are you _sure_? You're very good-looking; I'm _positive_ there must be _tons_ of them queuing up for you to train them!'

Ha ha haaa! She'd pulled all the right nerves; Phillipa noted with slightly sadistic pleasure how the young man's face had flared into the precise shade of a slab of raw beef.

'There aren't,' he said shortly. 'Is it possible for you to have the stuff ready by one this afternoon?'

She gave him a fond, motherly smile and waved a piece of paper and a biro at him. 'Of course, pet. Could you write your name down here?'

'I'd rather not.'

'Eh?'

He pulled out an ID pass with his photograph on it. There was no name underneath it. Instead, there were the words: "_Should be referred to as 'sir' at all times_."

Phillipa regarded this with some surprise and blurted, 'Even if I'm older than you?'

He made a non-committal face. 'You'd be surprised.'

She frowned at him and he frowned back. How perfectly..._odd_. Phillipa cleared her throat.

'Well, you wouldn't mind _signing_ here then, sir?' she asked formally.

'Of course not,' he replied, taking the pen, scribbling something and handing it back. Phillipa tried to read the signature, but it was a massive mess of curls.

'Right. Thanks. Goodbye,' he said abruptly, his face back to normal, and he beat a hasty retreat.

After bidding him a good day, Phillipa sat back down and squinted at the signature. Suddenly, something "legible" seemed to emerge from it.

_The English royal arms_, she thought unconsciously, but then she blinked, and couldn't see the image again.

_**22 May 2010**_

_**MI6, London [Ballistics Department]**_

_**1003 GMT**_

Italy did his best to imitate Martin. Truthfully, it wasn't the slightest bit easy with shaking arms.

'Now, just keep an eye on the target and..._shoot_!'

Martin released a flying orange blur which pierced through the middle of the target quite easily.

Italy's jaw and arms dropped in a fluid, simultaneous movement.

'It's your turn, have a go,' encouraged Martin.

'I can't,' Italy sniffed.

Martin looked him over and clapped in an "aha-I've-got-it" way.

'All you need to do is open your eyes! Come on. Open them. It'll be OK after.'

With all his might, Italy screwed up his face and tried in vain to peel his eyes open. With a faint _pop!_, one lid opened to reveal a sparkling brown eye.

'Ve!'

'Fabulous! Now the other one?' Martin chided.

But try as he might, the other refused firmly to open. Martin sighed.

'You'll have to make do with that, I'm afraid.'

'Ve,' sighed Italy.

_**22 May 2010**_

_**MI6, London**_

_**1047 GMT**_

They trotted side by side down the corridor, Italy "ve"-ing in relief and Martin walking and smiling as if trying to conceal a great pain up his bottom.

'Good job today,' Martin told Italy with a twisted expression. 'I – oh, here we are.'

The two stopped in front of the wooden door. Italy swore that he could hear talking and laughter inside. He felt confused and was about to tell Martin, but the latter had started to knock. The sounds from within stopped abruptly, and then the door opened a crack.

'Oh, it's you two,' England said, widening the gap. Italy couldn't see anyone else in the office. England ushered them in and started pouring out tea. The atmosphere was static with awkward silence (with the exception of Italy's "ve"s and the mental chirping of imaginary crickets).

'Uh, so...um...how did it go?' England broke the awkwardness awkwardly (the mental chirping of imaginary crickets abruptly cut).

'Ve!' Italy cheered cheerfully. It had been highly frightening, of course, but in the end he did manage to pull the trigger... Not sure where the bullet ended up, though.

'Er...' Martin mumbled, taking his tea and gulping before yelping due to his burnt tongue. Then he looked at England with wide eyes.

'_Oh_, I see,' England smiled uncomfortably.

'Wha-?' said Italy, puzzled.

'Th-that you did...uh...fantastically!'

'Ve!'

Martin and England gave him identical wonky grins, the former's lip swelling with a blister.

_**22 May 2010**_

_**MI6, London**_

_**1100 GMT**_

'Well! Now _he's_ gone, we can actually _do_ something!'

'V-ve?'

* * *

_Still remember me?_

_Four-month hiatus, sorry. Thanks for all reviews, faves and alerts during the time._

_Constructive criticism highly welcome._

_Rating went up due to some T stuff in chapters to come._

_Tabbyprincess is the genius who figured out the answer to Question 1. *applause*_

_-Fobwatch_


	9. I Can't Explain

_**22 May 2010**_

_**MI6, London**_

_**1101 GMT**_

'This game is really simple. It trains your observation and memory.'

Italy nodded earnestly, trying to prove himself worthy of espionage after only a few hours of "training".

'All you have to do is try to remember what I say. Well, not _verbatim_ – you can if you want – but a general idea will be fine. OK?'

'Ve!' crowed Italy.

'Right,' England declared seriously. 'Let's start. So...'

He unleashed a torrent of words which Italy made no attempt to divert into his memory.

'Now tell me what I just said,' encouraged England.

'Uh...' Italy mumbled, 'you were talking about a...rabbit?'

'And...?'

'Um...it died?'

England gave him a sort of dead-fish look.

'Um...it _lived_ and then it died.'

England said resignedly, 'All right. How about this. You need to listen out for these: who, what, when, where, why and how. Ever heard of that?'

'Ye-e-es,' Italy said slowly, a vague fuzz stirring in his memory.

Meticulously, England outlined each detail surrounding the pet rabbit he once had and explained the who, what, when, where, why and how.

Italy's mind reeled as he took it all in.

'C-can I have a pen and paper?' he requested weakly.

England pushed over a pile of scrap paper topped with a blue Bic biro. Italy flipped the top sheet over curiously. On the back, there was a scribble of what seemed to be a potato with hair on legs.

'_Sealand_ drew that,' England grimaced apologetically. 'I have no idea what it's supposed to be, but it reminds me of a potato with hair on legs.'

'Oh,' Italy acknowledged, unsure of what to say.

'You can see he has...no talents in this.'

Italy agreed.

'Um...let's get on with it.'

'Ve...'

'OK, ready? Now, two days ago, I bought a book...'

_**22 May 2010**_

_**MI6, London**_

_**1208 GMT**_

Leaning back in his spinny chair, England set loose a resigned sigh. Opposite him sat Italy, staring nervously at him and clutching the pile of paper.

'Well, I'd be a liar to say that went brilliantly, but...er...you _might_ improve with practice.'

He'd decided that the truth was better told in these circumstances. The brunet nation facing him hung his head miserably.

'B-but,' England blustered on, suddenly feeling intensely uncomfortable, 'um...you can have lunch now, I suppose!'

Italy's head snapped back up so fast he could've broken his neck, and his mysterious hair curl didn't stop vibrating until half an hour later.

'R-really?'

'Yeh. I've made Marmite sandwiches – ' to England's complete surprise, Italy's face fell comically ' – but you can always go to the canteen on level two; they sell – OI! ITALY! I haven't finished!'

England couldn't help thinking how all those years of retreating had probably come in handy as the door clicked shut behind Italy's back.

_**22 May 2010**_

_**MI6, London**_

_**1212 GMT**_

When England wound up in the canteen, he thought that he'd have a heart attack from embarrassment. There was Italy, hair curl still vibrating and perfectly content in the eye of what seemed to be a storm of women; both, England noted with horror, young and old. And _Italy_ himself was engaged in... Well, the best description of what he was doing that England could come up with would be..._ "hardcore flirting_". Every single other, non-involved eye was affixed onto the crowd.

Cheeks flaring red and eyelids sliding shut in humiliation, England whipped around, all set to march back to his office to eat his Marmite sandwich in relative pea–

'CIAAAAAAAAAAO!' came a joyous shout.

Somewhat foolishly, England stopped in his tracks and sneaked a look over his shoulder.

_Oh, bollocks..._

Everyone was staring at him as if he'd just laid an egg. And in the midst of the unblinking eyes and frozen stances, there was Italy, waving like hell.

_**22 May 2010**_

_**MI6, London**_

_**1237 GMT**_

'I have never _ever_ been so _mortified_ in my life,' hissed the surly blond frizz that was England as the two of them, England stalking ahead and Italy struggling to keep up, made their way back to the office.

Italy managed to catch a glimpse of his companion's face. He _did_ look mortified. An unattractive flush had dyed his face a dull red like spilt pomegranate juice, and was probably just as permanent. Not that Italy _was_ really worried about mundane things like that. Ah – it was an end to a most painful five-hour-long flirting withdrawal.

So he told England that he should stop going red because it didn't look very nice as his hair curl stopped vibrating.

Not that England paid any attention. He went redder – if possible.

'I thought I'd _told_ you that you can't flirt here. An _utter_ lack of dignity and discretion! I'm disappointed in you, Italy,' he snarled menacingly, his volume knob inching louder.

'But they _seemed_ happy,' Italy tried to reason.

'_I'll_ be the judge of _that_! And that's beside the point! You're a _guest_ here, and _my_ guest to boot! It's so _damn_ humiliating!'

'Uwaah, I'm sorry, Engl – '

England's hand slapped suddenly onto his mouth as Agent Fifty-Eight appeared from nowhere, Russet hot on his heels. Chin, cheeks and lips stinging painfully, Italy saw Fifty-Eight's shrewd brown eyes take in the scene before him, lip curling disdainfully. Italy tried to put himself into the agent's perspective and saw a blond and skinny tomato with a hand over the mouth of a short, stunned giraffe with a hair curl.

'Well, well, _sir_,' said Fifty-Eight as if biting back a chuckle.

'What do you want?' England demanded belligerently as Italy's 'Ciao!' got strangled into the former's palm.

'Nothing, nothing.'

The agent and his Faithful Sidekick trotted off down the corridor. England let go of Italy's face and the latter rubbed his face with a fluorescent orange handkerchief.

'Do be careful with using my name in the future.'

England wiped his hand on his trouser leg with contempt.

'Ve,' Italy said miserably, trying to keep everything England had said under mental paperweights as the wind of distraction threatened to blow his way.

_**22 May 2010**_

_**MI6, London**_

_**1300 GMT**_

'Oh hello, sir!' Mrs Parkes gushed. 'I've got everything ready! Is this your friend? Oh, he's _adorable_!'

'_Ciao, signora_!' Italy smiled back, a pink tinge staining his face, diverting huge scores of attention to the middle-aged lady.

'Hello, Mrs Parkes,' England managed to edge in, feeling like a gooseberry. Not that she noticed.

'Oh, are you _Italian_, dearie? How _nice_!'

'Ve!'

'Aww, how sweet! Look at him, sir, ain't he sweet?'

England stood flabbergasted by the strange woman's over-motherly-ness, unsure of what to say.

'Oh, and look – doesn't that _gorgeous_ suit _really_ bring out your..._hair_!'

England could not suppress a smirk at Italy's expression.

* * *

_Don't own Hetalia, or chapter title (sorry, the Who fan cannot resist)._

_Chapters after this start getting better._

_Thanks for reviews/alerts/faves. Constructive criticism greatly encouraged!_

_Healthy tip: don't try imitate Pete Townshend if not wearing sturdy shoes and trousers._

_-Fobwatch_


	10. Lifeline

_**21 November 2010**_

_**MI6, London [Ballistics Department]**_

_**0909 GMT**_

_Bang._

_Bang, bang._

_Bangbangbangbangbangbang._

With every gunshot, England flinched. Not because of the noise, of course. His earmuffs were doing their job perfectly. It was just...

_Bang._

A bullet skipped off the lino floor.

_Bang_.

Another flattened itself onto the wall.

_Bang_.

This one somehow ricocheted off the ceiling, and then off the floor, and then skittered off in a basically random direction.

The (wannabe) shooter, who was none other than the incompetent Italy, twisted around and mouthed something.

'What?' yelled England, uncomprehending.

Italy mouthed the thing again.

'WHAT?'

Belatedly, he remembered the earmuffs and tore the blocky orange things off.

'WHAT?'

'I'm EMPTYYYYYYY!'

'Then RELOAAAAAAAAD!'

'I've run OUUUUUUUT!'

'What do you MEEEEEAN?'

'I didn't bring SPAAAAAAAAARES!'

'Oh, you IDIOOOOOOOT!'

'I'm SORRYYYYYYYYYY!'

Italy started to cry. England, already immune to it after an intensive half-year "training", ignored him and stomped over in a surly manner.

'You're going to be on your own by tomorrow, Italy! Your assessment is going to be given to you, you're going to stop this bloody training, and you'll still be as useless as ever!' he roared at the quivery Italy. He'd been saying those exact two sentences for the past month now; the only change being the word "tomorrow" replaced respectively.

'B-but I can shoot now...'

'BUT NOT ON _TARGET_, WHICH IS THE WHOLE _POINT_!'

England scowled at Italy, who had Italian tears and English spit all over his face.

'I'll get Martin to look after you for a while. I have some important things to do.'

_**21 November 2010**_

_**Germany's house**_

_**0916 GMT**_

'_Hallo_?'

'Good morning, though I'd beg to differ.'

Germany sighed, suddenly feeling stressed. He hadn't heard that voice for precisely twenty-three hours, ten minutes and two seconds, and he'd hoped not to hear it for a much longer while.

'Don't give me that!' snapped England on the other end of the telephone, sounding incredibly like a disapproving mother. 'We know precisely what will, or more like will not, happen in a little more than twenty-four hours from now. That miserable flop is going to _fail_...as usual.'

'Please, England,' Germany groaned, completely exasperated. He'd had this exact conversation for the whole entire (maybe not) past month. 'Just another day? I'm holding _my_ end of the deal here and I'm watching _Top Gear_ every day.'

'Is it in German?'

'Sorry?'

'I said, is it dubbed with German?'

'Um...'

Germany could almost hear England's sarcastic green eyes roll.

'He's not going to get perfect in one day,' England said, a heavy dose of resignation in his voice. 'It's _not_ going to happen.'

'But you have to keep your end of the deal, England,' Germany told him reasonably. 'He won't let you down. I'll see what I can do.'

That last part was futile hope; a lie.

England seemed to know it too, but if he did, he didn't give any indication.

'Fine,' he said, grumbling. 'One more day. Bye.'

Germany sighed as he set the receiver down heavily. There was almost no hope left. He couldn't convince England to let Italy stay a bit longer; only an idiot would. But the consequence would be that Italy would still be as incompetent as ever, with no proper spying system.

He suddenly felt rather tired. Germany flicked on his computer, waited for it to boot up, and then clicked the Google Chrome icoon. Typical of him, the homepage was a newspaper website. The headline today was positively enormous; blocky, black letters that screamed out the latest huge happening.

The cogs of Germany's brain started working (not that they weren't working before). The next thing he knew, he was stretching for the phone and dialling a number he had never dialled before.

_**21 November 2010**_

_**MI6, London**_

_**1230 GMT**_

Quickly dogging the footsteps of the petite blonde lady leading the way, he hitched his stiff new satchel higher up his shoulder nervously, not wanting his beloved iPad to fall out. Attractively red Converse shoes slapped conspicuously on the floor as he tried to discern, philosophise, meditate, contemplate, ponder, and keep his hair out of his eyes at the same time.

'Please try to keep up,' said the blonde lady, who was effortlessly shooting along.

He mumbled something that wasn't rather nice under his breath, and said aloud, 'You, like, walk t' fast.'

The blonde lady didn't reply; she just took larger steps.

Presently, she stopped abruptly in front of a heavy, carved wooden door and he collided slightly into her. She fixed him a stern look, he apologised insincerely, and then she straightened her blouse.

'Now, don't do anything silly when you're with him, OK?' she hissed at him, with an obviously disdainful glare at his casual clothing, as if she had sorted him into the "silly" folder just by a swift glance.

'I've 'ad exper'ence,' he replied dully, hitching the satchel up again.

She sniffed very loudly, as if she heartily disagreed (she probably did), then rapped politely on the chocolate door.

'Come in,' permitted a familiar voice.

The lady wrestled the door open ('WD40,' she muttered), pushed him in and snapped the door shut after.

He shuffled forward inch by inch, scuffing his shoes onto the thick carpet, not really wanting to look up.

'Hong Kong!' cried the person at the desk.

Of course, it was no other than England, who he had a rather terse sort of father-son relationship with.

'Englan',' acknowledged Hong Kong, still not really looking up.

'Hong Kong!' cried a completely different voice.

In spite of himself, Hong Kong twisted around to see the bouncing figure of Italy about to break his chair...if England had not glared poisonously at him. Then, England looked back over to Hong Kong, who was extremely confused as to why Italy was there.

'Well, I haven't seen you in such a long time!' England said in a fatherly way.

Hong Kong grunted expressionlessly in response. This was extremely _ab_normal of England's _normal_ character, but he was always like this of late, for some very mysterious reason.

'Look how you've grown!'

'Oh, like, seri'sly...'

'You can always stay over, you know! I've still got your room.'

'I to'ally don't g've a damn.'

England looked affronted. 'Well, that shows how much you love your dad. Ungrateful kids.'

Hong Kong ignored him.

'Well,' England sniffed as he slouched back into his spinny chair, 'I suppose you weren't here to see me for some nice reason, then?'

'No,' said Hong Kong bluntly. 'In fact, I've go' a case that mi', li', interest you. It's abou' pasta.'

_**21 November 2010**_

_**MI6, London**_

_**1237 GMT**_

Hong Kong could see England talk, but all he heard was a high-pitched scream of, 'PAAAAASTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!'

It was quite piercing, and the normally expressionless not-quite nation scrunched his face up and stuffed his fingers into his ears.

The screaming died down after about a minute, or when Italy had run out of breath; whichever was slower and more painful. Hong Kong and an earmuff-ed England stared as Italy swayed on his feet, and then collapsed onto his chair, semi-unconscious.

That was the last straw for the chair. It too collapsed; a pile of splintery matchsticks was soon stabbing at Italy's bottom.

'Well,' said England in a reasonable tone as he edged his loud earmuffs off, 'I never liked that chair anyway.'

Hong Kong unplugged his ears cautiously as well.

'Those earmuffs 're to'ally ugly.'

England scowled, subconsciously stuffing the offending object behind his back. 'So? And stop talking like that; I can barely understand you.'

'So what?' Hong Kong retorted in Cantonese.

England scowled even more. 'Did you just call me an idiot?'

'No.'

'You said something in Chinese, though!'

'I _am_ Chinese.'

Hong Kong's satisfaction at England's purpling face did not show, but he felt it quite intensely.

* * *

_First after-hiatus-written chapter._

_Time lapse due to lack of momentum in previous parts._

_I improvised heaps on Hong Kong's speech..._

_Constructive criticism highly encouraged._

_I don't own Hetalia._

_-Fobwatch_


	11. Well, About That

_**21 November 2010**_

_**MI6, London**_

_**1240 GMT**_

It hadn't taken long for England to decide that yelling at Hong Kong wasn't worthwhile; he'd always been impertinent. It was probably because of some teenager-y rebellious thing. "My Generation" by the Who hummed through his head unhelpfully.

He got Hong Kong to clean up the broken chair bits and dragged Italy outside. Dragging Italy around had been like weight training; England swore that his biceps had swollen in the past six months. He dumped Italy in the corridor and strolled back in as his Mental MP3 Player reached the bass solo, locking the door.

'There we go,' he smiled serenely. 'Now we can discuss your case in secre– Hong Kong, what are you doing at my window?'

'N'ffin',' mumbled Hong Kong, shuffling away from it.

'Really.'

He gestured for Hong Kong to sit on the second-most uncomfortable seat (as the most uncomfortable was now scraps of wood in the bin) and leaned back on his spinny chair.

'So what's this thing about pasta?'

'Well,' Hong Kong started, scooting over to a more comfortable chair, 'I was developin' a, like, pasta comp'ny and some, like, odd sabotages 'ave happened.'

England raised a substantial eyebrow.

'Why the hell were you developing a pasta company?'

'I dunno; the wri'er thought tha' it'd be to'ally funny.'

'What writer?'

'We're in a fanfic.'

England snorted derisively, rolling his eyes.

'You've been watching too much Hollywood, young lad.'

Hong Kong shrugged.

'In tha' case, it's 'cos we wanted some nice, cheap pasta.'

England frowned.

'You're very strange, Hong Kong, do you realise?'

Hong Kong merely grunted.

'Never mind,' said England. 'Tell me about the case.'

Hong Kong shrugged as if he didn't really care (he probably did, though), then peeled open his satchel, taking out his iPad.

'Well,' he said, pressing a few complicated-looking buttons on the fancy touch-screen and flipping the tablet around. The screen flipped along with it. Rows of Chinese text staggered across the monitor.

_Show off_, thought England with pursed lips.

'So?' he said aloud. 'You know I can't read that. Tell me what happened.'

'Well,' Hong Kong said, suddenly becoming rather businesslike and leaning forward to place his elbows on the desk and clasping his hands, 'there's this pasta company I've been developing; we've got the stock, recipes, managers, locations and the _money_. Completely organised and set to launch within a year. However, just this morning, really early, the recipes were somehow completely wiped off each computer, hard drive and any sort of data storage space they'd been on, taste samples were stolen, and a ton of money just disappeared from our account.'

'Wow.'

'Yeh, it's, like, shockin'.'

'No, I meant "wow" as in "wow, you spoke normally".'

'That's 'cos the wri – '

'So,' England interrupted, as he grabbed Hong Kong's iPad from his hands and smacked it onto the desk. 'You're saying that you've lost recipes, samples and lots of money.'

'Yuh.' Hong Kong picked up the iPad, stroked the back somewhat lovingly and placed it back softly.

'Didn't you have hard copies?'

'No.'

'Isn't that a bit dim?'

'Prob'ly.'

England sighed. Talking to Hong Kong was sometimes like talking to a goat. Lots of strange mumbling.

'And you also lost samples?'

'Hmm.'

'Didn't you have others?'

'No' really. We have t' eat 'em eventually.' Hong Kong scratched the back of his ear.

'And,' England said confusedly, 'you also lost heaps of money.'

'Hmm.'

'But can't you just trace it?'

'If I could, then, I'd, like, 've done it a'ready.'

England took that comment as an insult.

Hong Kong, however looked rather nervous all of a sudden.

'S-so,' stammered the young not-quite nation, 'w-will y', like, help...me?'

He didn't have to wait long for the answer.

'Hell no!' scoffed England. 'Seriously, it's about a _pasta company_. That is _completely _ridiculous! Why the hell were you targeted, anyway? Who'd target a pasta company? That's just silly. Just use your _own_ intelligence.'

Hong Kong's face slid back into its usual impassiveness.

'OK then,' he said blankly. A bit too blankly, in fact. Was he trying to implement reverse psychology?

'W-well, the answer's still no.'

'You said tha' already.'

'I did?'

'Righ' then, bye.'

Taking shuffling steps in his blindingly red shoes, Hong Kong picked up his iPad and headed for the door...

_**21 November 2010**_

_**MI6, London**_

_**1252 GMT**_

_SLAM!_

The door sprang open, revealing England sitting behind his desk looking surprised and an odd groaning sound from mid-air.

'THEN I WILL!' screamed Italy ardently.

'What?' said England, shock plastered all over his face.

'I SHALL TAKE ON THE CASE!'

'What the hell are you talking about?'

'THE CASE!'

'What case?'

'THE CASE!'

'What case? A briefcase?'

'PAAAAAAAAAASTAAAAAAAAAA!'

England flinched as Italy poured his soul into the beautiful word.

'Of _course_ you're not taking the case!' snapped England when Italy stopped. 'That's bloody ridiculous. You haven't even finished training, and you still suck like goodness-knows-what.'

'But my beloved pasta!' Italy wailed. 'It needs my help!'

'How did you get in here anyway? I locked the door.'

'I picked the lock! And I also eavesdropped!' Italy declared proudly.

'You're bleeding on my carpet!' England yelled.

Italy glanced down, frowning. 'Ve?'

'I'm usin' tissues,' mumbled someone, and from behind the door stepped Hong Kong, holding a tissue stained entirely with dark red blood to his nose in one hand, and a smashed iPad in the other.

'Hong Kong!' Italy cried, stunned at Hong Kong's dishevelled appearance. 'What on Earth did England do to you?'

'_N'ffin'_,' Hong Kong grunted, glaring intensely at Italy.

Italy couldn't imagine why.

_**21 November 2010**_

_**MI6, London**_

_**1305 GMT**_

The hospital wing was bright and clean-looking, positively sparkling with a lack of dirt and germs. It was there Italy, Hong Kong and England now found themselves, after England had managed to persuade Hong Kong to not do kung fu on Italy just yet, and get something done about his broken nose.

The doctor had stuck layers upon layers of plaster on Hong Kong's face, and now the latter was staring cross-eyed at the massive white lump.

'Like, geez thanks, It'ly,' he was now mumbling sullenly. 'I look to'ally ugly now.'

I'll get you a new iPad,' England ventured nervously. 'And you look OK.'

The last part was obviously a lie.

'Yuh, bu' still,' Hong Kong grumbled, pretending to look like he wasn't that chuffed about getting a new iPad. 'I've lost all th' da'a.'

'The what?'

'Da'a.'

'Da'a? What's that?'

'No, da'a!'

Italy coughed. 'Um, data?'

Hong Kong reaffixed his glare onto the careless nation. 'Yuh.'

There was a silence (a rather awkward one at that), and unusually, Hong Kong was the one who broke it.

'So,' he began, patting his nose cast.

'Hmm?' said England, blinking out of his reverie.

'Will y' do the case n'w?'

'YES!' shrieked Italy, hair suddenly sticking out everywhere.

'NO!' England roared at Italy. Italy cowered, and his hair flattened again. Hong Kong felt glad that the wing was more or less empty. England turned his undesired attention back to Hong Kong.

'You twit!' he said forcibly. 'Why'd you have to say that? You _know _Italy'd be like that.'

'Yuh.'

England pinched his lips, looking uncannily like a toothless old woman. Well, with thick eyebrows. But still. There were probably toothless old women with thick eyebrows.

'Please?' Italy whined. 'If you don't take it, I will! I'll definitely help you, Hong Kong!'

'Oh, really,' muttered Hong Kong sniffily.

'I will do anything for my beloved pasta!'

'I don't doubt that,' Hong Kong grumbled, pointedly looking at his nose.

Convincing England to take on the case took ages of persuasion, the details of which do not need to be divulged, because, as everyone is sure to know, England obviously refused.


End file.
